User blog:KitCalling/Second Chances - Why?
Dan Wilson's Den, 12:01 A.M. EST Oh no. Oh goddammit no. This can't be happening to me. Steve Spurlock slumped in a blue La-Z-Boy in Dan Wilson's den, the dying party around him little more than white noise. He felt like shit. He felt worse than he'd ever felt in his entire damn life. It wasn't just the beer churning in his stomach, nor the fact that he hadn't eaten since before the game. Shit, he doubted even his diabetes was to blame for how he felt right now, outwardly and inwardly. This was unbearable. His life had made so much sense before the party at Wilson's place had kicked off. Everything felt right, felt perfect before tonight. Now all of it was slipping right through his hands and down into drains that ran deep into the Earth, like the kind he was reading about in that one Stephen King book about the clown. Why had he liked it? Casey Harris flopped into a tan sofa nearest to the La-Z-Boy and Steve felt a surge of irrational anger racing through him. If Casey had kept his damn drunken trap shut, none of this would be happening right now. Steve watched as his teammate buried his face in his large ham-like hands and begin to sob and despite how fucking irritated Steve was at that moment, he still felt a twinge of empathy for his teammate. It seemed as though things had either gone poorly for Casey with that chick he was trying to pick up on or the booze had hit him hard, maybe even both. They'd prepped up a cooler of "jungle juice" that was surprisingly strong and Casey had downed enough of it to choke a hippopotamus. It was a miracle he was still upright, Steve thought. Why the fuck was this happening? The party was dying down by now. They were almost entirely out of jungle juice and most of the girls had left, many of them with Steve's teammates in tow. Dan was on his knees on the floor of the den, weaving together wondrous knots of profanity with each sentence as he attempted to scrub a beer stain out of the carpet. Ted and Bo both took off long ago. Bo had offered his place up if Steve wanted somewhere to crash, but Steve didn't really want to spend the night with any of the guys, not tonight at least. He didn't relish the long hike back to Bullworth alone, either. I'll bring Casey with me, he thought. Shit, Casey's the one that got me into this shitty situation. ' Bullworth Football Field, 9:13 P.M. EST' I can't breathe. Yes, you can. Man up son, this is football. Okay. "GET RIGHT THE HELL OUT THERE SPURLOCK! GO! GO!" One could say that Steve flew rather than ran, legs pumping a mile a minute as his cleats seemed to lift off the field. He would have cartwheeled his way across it if Coach Crowquill had asked him to. The football field was a place for him where freedom was not only feasible but absolutely possible and Steve wasn't one to disappoint. He gasped in several lungfuls of cool air as he ran. You fix this shitshow first, said a reasonable and rather authoritative voice near the back of his mind, a voice that sounded like his pop's. Fix this first, then you can take your breather. They were in the fourth quarter of the first game of the season, a home game. The Bulls trailed seventeen to twenty against the McGant Marauders, the same team that Dan Wilson had referred to as a "bunch of candy-asses" during practice just three days prior. Candy-asses or not, they were putting up one hell of a fight and had pushed the Bulls - currently in possession of the ball - back onto their own thirty-yard line. They were at least a field goal shy of pushing the game into overtime with a tie and had only five and a half minutes with which to accomplish this. With the way the game had gone thus far, it would take a miracle to win the game. But the miracle found them. Thompson made a ballsy move and decided to throw a long bomb down at McGant's forty and Steve took off like a rocket to meet him there, spotting an electric look in Thompson's dancing blue eyes as he shuffled around inside the pocket. Steve swept the pigskin right out of the air and into his open palms, like a farmer plucking a perfect egg right out of his prized henhouse. He didn't slow his roll by more than a picosecond for the catch before he cut a quick, fatal path towards the end zone. They didn't call him Blue Streak for nothing. Three of McGant's meathead linebackers tried to stop him, but they were big and clumsy, like lumbering rhinos. He weaved his way around them with the swift grace of an adder and with the roadblocks out of the way, he was too far gone for them to play catch-up, sliding into the end zone mere moments later. The audience screamed the ferocious affirmative that he had become accustomed to while playing for the Carney High Kings and his teammates all came to him then, some clapping him on the shoulder or slamming into him for a quick embrace. That one last push gave the team the confidence they needed to keep fighting and Dan managed to snag an interception. They held onto it until the clock ran out and finally the battle was won. "Ho-lee shit, that catch!" Ted Thompson roared, pulling Steve into an embrace that was rough, tight, but not entirely unwelcome. Ever since Steve had moved to Bullworth from some backwoods town in Wisconsin a few months ago, he and Thompson had forged a deep camaraderie, a kinship. Steve guessed that it stemmed from familiar histories when it came to football; Thompson's pop had been playing football with him for forever and Steve could relate. His pop had been his harshest coach, but Steve knew it was all out of love. "And ho-lee shit, that throw!" Steve cheered back, returning the embrace in full to his quarterback, his captain. His respect for Ted ran deep and true and was greater, perhaps, than his respect for the coaches. Ted shared his easy devotion to the sport and respect was forged almost immediately during their first practice together, when he turned up to the field in his old Aaron Rodgers jersey. Steve's pop had been a devout lifelong Packers fan and he shared a love of football with his son. Some of Steve's earliest memories brought forward foggy recollections of watching the Packers game atop his pop's knee or practicing in the backyard with a little Nerf football. The Bulls stomped back into the locker room together like a swarm of deadly fire ants on the move. They defended their territory for the first game of the season and although the games would get undoubtedly harder at some point, they were beginning to come together and become less of a ragtag band of individuals and more of a collective. There was a strong feeling of unity and confidence in the locker room that night, sweeping over them in waves. "We're gonna kill it at the regionals this year," Thompson exclaimed brashly as he removed his helmet, his sweat forming a halo of steam around his head as the frigid locker room air hit his warm, sweaty skin. Thompson's bold declarations of victory were met by fierce applause from the other guys as they shucked off their uniforms and all stampeded to the showers in unison, looking every bit as deadly to Steve as the herd that killed Simba's old man in The Lion King. Steve lagged behind a bit, catching a glimpse of himself in a full-length mirror as he passed. His brown eyes swept briefly over an almost-seventeen year old that was a real "All-American Boy" type. His build was lean and slender, strong but nothing like the rhinoceros-like build some of his teammates had. He was kind of attractive in a quiet way, all unruly waves of brown hair and eyes that were deep, sharp, and somewhat pensive for your average sportsman. The only major difference was the device attached to the side of his smooth, firm stomach. Round with an adhesive backing, a length of thin tubing ran from it into a brick-like device roughly the size of a deck of playing cards that rested against one hip. Encased in a protective impact-proof sports cover with a digital display, it was Steve's personal parasite, even though he fed off of it. Steve glanced at the display, checking his blood glucose levels and deciding they looked stable. He disconnected it with a wince, feeling the tiny needle as it slid out of the flesh of his abdomen. Gingerly, he placed it at the bottom of his locker and headed into the showers. There was a fierce need to get showered and dressed as quickly as he was able to; Dan Wilson was arranging a party at his place while his folks were out of town and it had been the talk of the school since he started hitting people up about it earlier in the day. Bullworth Streets, 12:18 A.M. EST Why? Why is this happening to me? This is fucking bullshit, Steve thought viciously to himself as they stumbled down the darkened street, hooking one arm to support Casey as he went. The night air was biting and cold and he suddenly regretted leaving his new Bulls jacket hung up in his locker. On the other hand, a dose of cold air and the pressure of Casey half-leaning on him did stand a chance of snapping him back into reality, maybe even wake him from the fucking nightmare this had become. God, this was even worse than the prospect of everyone at Bullworth learning about his insulin pump. Why had he liked it? The insulin pump was a closely-guarded team secret that still hadn't surfaced beyond the locker room. Steve was a good wide receiver and he'd won the loyalty of his new Bullworth teammates, who were shockingly empathetic when it came to his condition. Universally, he felt all guys at the top of the world hated to become an object of pity through no fault of their own and perhaps all of them could understand why he wanted to keep it on the down-low as long as he could. They seemed to understand - without ever experiencing it for themselves - how much it fucking sucked for him back in the days of playing pee-wee when the other parents would give him these awe-stricken looks of pity. Danger lurked in places where the guys couldn't save him, though. Last week, he had been stupid enough to agree on skipping Slawter's boring-ass biology class to make out with Christy Martin under the bleachers. Truth be told, he didn't have any feelings for Martin, but making out with a moderately attractive girl was better than slicing open some old frog or a roadkill cat that Slawter found on the way to the academy. Martin had almost copped a feel of Steve that would have brought her in direct contact with his insulin pump and that would have been a fucking nightmare. Bo had warned him that Christy was a talker. This had to be a fucking nightmare. Even that nightmare is better than this one, Steve thought to himself as he staggered under Casey's weight. It wasn't all bad having diabetes (his pop first discovered it after bringing him to the doctor one day, after he discovered Stevie taking an awful lot of pisses) but not everyone understood it. His folks treated him normal, but that season of pee-wee in Wisconsin had irreparably damaged his concept of it. Some of those parents used to look at Steve almost like he'd been diagnosed with leukemia or like he was one of those terminally ill Make-A-Wish ''kids and that he'd drop dead at any given minute. Few things were as miserable and soul-crushing for a rambunctious kid than being looked at like every tiny move you made was some divine miracle from God himself. How brave, how amazing, what a ''miracle it was that a "brave little boy" like him could keep playing football, some had said. One dad even approached Steve's folks and asked if they ought to consider putting him in flag football ''because it was gentler, easier. ''Fuck flag, Steve had thought viciously. Flag is for pansies. Why had he liked it? Steve yanked Casey into a small alcove in a nearby business as a cop cruised by. The cops would surely come to harass the two of them for being out past curfew and judging by Casey's current state, they'd probably breathalyze them for the hell of it. Small-town cops needed dumb kids like them to whittle away the night shift with and to Steve, nothing could make the night worse than being a cheap thrill for some bored cops. Neither of them were of age and Steve really didn't want to add jail to tonight's shit-list. Dan Wilson's Den, 10:28 P.M. EST "Let's play spin the bottle!' "Are you fucking serious?" "Why not? Sounds like fun." Steve sat on the coarse sandy carpet of the Wilson family's den, running his finger idly through the rough fabric as all the partygoers left over formed a loose circle on the floor. Steve had a couple of reasons to keep his attention averted from the game that was kicking off, most of them crucial, though he was also keeping an eye on his beer. Juri got two times as clumsy with a shit-ton of jungle juice in him and he'd already knocked over someone else's drink. The big reason why he kept his eyes averted was that Christy Martin was in the circle too, risking glances over at him as though she expected him to say something to her...like she wanted more from him. Steve, his face flushed, settled on keeping his eyes averted. He really didn't want to go there. How do you tell a chick that she doesn't interest you after sucking her face? Shit, he thought, I've gotten myself in deep with this one. Scratch that. The big reason why Steve kept his eyes away from the circle was that he wasn't entirely satisfied with their victory against McGant. They won, sure, but it had been a narrow victory. He was almost glad that his pop had been out with his mom and unable to make it to the game. He felt completely dissatisfied with his own performance. Shit, I know I can do better than that. As he avoided meeting eyes with Christy, he was picking up on little micro-conversations going on around him. "Dude, I bet I can score with that blond chick over there." "You fuckin' kidding me, Harris? She's a '''cheerleader '''from McGant!" "I know. Girls can't resist guys like me, though. Especially '''winners.'"'' Luis spun first and the bottle landed on Christy. Thank fuck, Steve thought to himself as Luis, who had spent three lunch periods gushing about how hot he thought Martin was, perked up. Maybe she'll forget about me now. "...listening to me, Ted? Do you know how screwed up this is?" "Relax baby, it's not like I'm going to kiss one of the chicks." "There are more girls than guys here, you '''asshole'. What do you think will happen?"'' Mandy Wiles seemed pretty pissed by Ted's decision to hop in on the game of spin-the-bottle. Worse yet, Ted had forbidden Mandy from playing with them, perhaps afraid that one of the guys would try to swoop her out from under him. The two had bickered like an old married couple on and off for the entire party, with Mandy also taking umbrage with Ted's alcohol consumption. Steve kept picking at the carpet, trying to drown out their voices as one of the McGant girls spun on Juri and he went in for the kiss. Steve was hoping the game would end soon so he could go back to playing War of the Monsters with some of the guys on the Playstation set-up that Dan had down there. "Dude, your little brother's such a fucking fruit. I saw him hanging out with one of those smelly lard-asses from the Astronomy Club yesterday and they were talking about that shitty board game they like." "I know r-right? I came down here to grab one of my dad's beers out of the fridge last week while they were playing that game and they had that Cornelius kid dressed up as a chick, dude. Said he was their elf princess or some shit." "What the fuck? Are you fuckin' serious, man?" "Dead serious. He was wearing '''my mom's dress', dude."'' "Your turn, Thompson!" Bo announced as he finished up his turn, having kissed a pretty girl with dark hair that Steve was only vaguely familiar with, taking a hearty sip of the jungle juice they made. "Have a good roll, captain." Ted grinned brashly up at his teammate and reached for the bottle, but this was apparently the wrong ''move to make. As the bottle made several rapid revolutions around the circle, Mandy angrily wrenched herself out Ted's embrace to storm out of the den, slamming the door behind her. Ted, now annoyed, excused himself and went after her. The rest of them sat in tense silence then as Steve and Bo shared a look from across the circle. They'd seen Ted and Mandy get on each other's nerves before and often, but it rarely ever got this tense in public. "Oh shit!" Casey suddenly guffawed as the bottle stopped moving. "Mandy didn't even ''need to get pissed. Look who the bottle landed on!" Steve looked down at the center of the circle to find the bottle's neck pointing right at him and he immediately started to laugh along with some of the other guys. Oh shit, he thought, that '''is '''kind of funny. Poor Ted's probably getting the chewing-out of his life right now, but holy shit, that's hilarious. "Goddammit," Dan swore under his breath, his face flushed from laughter. "He would have had to kiss you instead of a chick, Blue Streak. What an unlucky bastard." "Check yourself in the mirror before you say I'm not a good time," Steve retorted. "Cause you look like the fuckin' kid from that Problem Child movie we saw at Bo's house last weekend." "Bah!" Casey gasped, spluttering cheap beer all over his front and the laughter picked up once again. "He does! " Some of the chicks weren't too impressed with the ribbing or how the game of spin the bottle had evaporated, but Steve was laughing too hard to care, his sides tensing up with pain as he rolled on the carpet beside Bo, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks as the guys continued to playfully insult one another. Bullworth Gates, 12:42 A.M. EST My fucking life is over. None of this makes any sense. But at the same time... Bullworth Academy was quiet, bathed in the light of a fading full moon as it continually peered out from behind thick, gray cloud cover that overtook the darkened New England town. Steve and Casey arrived at the wrought-iron gates and gently pried them open, slipping inside. The last thing they needed was to get caught sneaking in by one of the prefects, or Peabody, or anyone else that might be prowling around at this hour. As if that could make anything worse. Steve jumped as he picked up on movement in the dark, then felt a wave of relief sweep over him. Only Russell and two of his guys, enjoying a smoke. He felt a twinge of envy; they looked calm and collected like they were enjoying themselves, enjoying the night, enjoying each others' company. At this moment, Steve wanted to be anybody in the world, anybody but ''Steve Spurlock. ''Why had he fucking liked it? He and Casey crashed through the door to the bedroom that Steve shared with Juri and Bo. Juri disappeared earlier in the night with the McGant girl and Bo, who lived only a half-mile away from Dan, took off for his own house. Casey was dead to the world in about two minutes, but Steve paced around the cramped bedroom. Cold air surged into the shared bedroom as he did, unable to sleep after what had happened. Maybe I was drunk, maybe it was the booze. But he hadn't been drunk. In fact, apart from Bo, Steve was the only guy that hadn't left the party completely faded out of his mind. He'd made a discreet trip to the upstairs bathroom in the middle of the party to check out his blood glucose levels and, after wincing at the results, decided to lay off the alcohol a bit. He was a bit tipsy, maybe, and perhaps he could even argue that he was drunk on the atmosphere of the party, but the beer hadn't been coursing through him as it had been for many of the others. Steve wanted to cry. It felt like someone had driven their hand into his chest and started squeezing his heart. It was the most shitty feeling he had ever felt. It was sucky. It hurt. Thoughts flooded into his mind then, a rapid-fire burst of invasive, unwanted memories. He was recalling Seo-yun, a girl that he had "dated" back in the fifth grade. It was mostly a lot of hand-holding and cute kiddie shit like that, but he had also had his first kiss with that girl, on the school bus. It hadn't been anything, hadn't felt like anything and he was sure that it was just because they were kids and he was too young...too young to feel that shit. Then there was that girl he met at Damon's party last year, Vanessa. She was beautiful, ''he'd thought, and the two of them grew closer over the course of that night and a single trip to the carnival that year...but they'd lost contact soon after. It just hadn't worked quite like Steve thought it would. Christy Martin, who had been ogling him the entire duration of the party, was another case where he just didn't feel anything from it. When they were out sucking face behind the bleachers that day, it just kind of felt like Steve had a glossy pair of lips on his...but nothing ''else. ''Nothing ''special. He didn't feel sparks, didn't feel fireworks, could not feel even a hint of the shit that others talked about. He could not, had never, hadn't even remotely felt it. Until now. Dan Wilson's Den, 11:14 P.M. EST "Is this alright with you, bro?" "Yeah, it's no problem, man." "Alright. Let's do it, Blue Streak." They stood near the television set, colors and sounds blaring as Bo Jackson versed Casey in a round of War of the Monsters, which the two of them had just been playing before Casey opened his trap. Most of the guys were drunk. Thompson's face was red like Galloway's on a bad - or for him, a good - Thursday afternoon. His breath had that alcohol smell to it, the smell that had become synonymous with English class for Steve. It had seemed like a pretty good idea, pretty fucking hilarious, even. The two of them were so sure, so secure in who they were that a little thing like this wouldn't matter. Might as well entertain the guests and finish the game of spin the bottle once and for all, right? Put the damn thing to rest, so Casey couldn't bring it up again. Couldn't get them to drop their Playstation controllers so he could steal them. Ted Thompson leaned in. Putting on a good show, Steve did too. The first thing Steve thought was admittedly pretty fruity. How are Thompson's lips that soft? he wondered. It seemed so antithetical to the Thompson he knew, the guy that would play in the rain until he was splattered with mud, the guy that would take or give a tackle to secure a first down. It was almost kind of hilarious. He figured he had to have been almost as close to Thompson as Damon was, but he had never seen this side of his captain, his quarterback. True, a good part of it came from the beer, but it was kind of....kind of nice? And then...something else. Oh no. Oh fuck. Oh, '''fuck' no.'' He felt it. That feeling that other people spoke about, the one he didn't - and he'd thought perhaps couldn't - experience. The sudden wave of warmth that went through his body like a shockwave. The way it felt like there was a tiny psycho in his heart, hammering away with a jackhammer. That feeling that he'd liked so much whenever he went on a kickass rollercoaster - if this wasn't a rollercoaster, he didn't know what was - and it went upside-down or corkscrewed. That ''feeling. The feeling he'd waited his entire life to feel when he met the right chick. The feeling he had started to think might not exist...that maybe he would have to visit some shrink and figure out what inside him was broken that made it so he ''couldn't ''feel that feeling. He was feeling it...but not how he'd hoped. He was feeling ''that feeling...with Ted fucking Thompson, of all people. Ted didn't seem to notice anything unusual. Not as they kissed, not as they broke apart, not as they chilled for a few minutes and played a final round of War of the Monsters before he bounced. But Steve's mind was swimming somewhere else now. Why had he liked it? Why? Category:Blog posts